


To Chase Beautiful Dreams

by antonomasia09



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Padmé Amidala, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt Savage Opress, Hurt/Comfort, Planet Togoria (Star Wars), Savage Opress Lives, Size Difference, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antonomasia09/pseuds/antonomasia09
Summary: Padmé's captors toss a large scary Zabrak into her cell in the hopes that he'll frighten her into giving up the information they want. Things don't go the way they expect.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Savage Opress
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs 2020





	To Chase Beautiful Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/gifts).



> I saw your prompt about throwing the scary guy in a cell to freak the other person out but the guy actually being really sweet and just went _wow, YES._
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta alyyks, who always knows exactly what to say to make everything infinitely better.

The clang of the outer door of the dungeon makes Padmé scramble backwards, away from the entrance of her cell. She hastily slides her lockpicks into her hair, and adjusts her skirts so that it’s not obvious she’s been attempting feats of athleticism in order to reach the locking mechanism installed at a reasonable height for her tall Togorian captors but far too high for Padmé to reach comfortably.

She can’t see what’s going on in the hallway, but she can hear feet scuffling and guards shouting in pain and in anger, and she would think it was a rescue except for the low growling and the lack of blaster bolt or lightsaber noises.

The noise gets louder and louder until it comes to a halt in front of her cell. She swallows and wishes the guards hadn’t been quite so thorough when locating and removing her concealed blasters. All she has left is the knife sewn into the bodice of her dress, and she doubts it would be effective against either the guards or the animal they’ve dragged down here.

A key turns in the lock, and Padmé gets a glimpse of the scene in the hallway.

The Togorians haven’t brought an animal; they’ve got a Zabrak chained, collared, and leashed, and still fighting wildly. He takes a swipe at one of the guards, who dodges and then darts in to jab an electroprod directly into the Zabrak’s bare chest. He falls to the ground with a cry, limbs jerking uncoordinatedly, and the guards waste no time shoving him into Padmé’s cell and slamming the door shut behind them.

“Have fun, Senator,” one of them calls. “Maybe once he’s eaten a few limbs you’ll feel a little more cooperative.”

The footsteps retreat as the Zabrak snarls at the door, and Padmé freezes as he swings his head around to glare at her, his eyes glowing golden in the dim light.

He’s huge and well-muscled, with sharp claws and horns, and even pressing herself against the back wall of the cell, she’s barely out of his reach. He doesn’t try to lunge at her, though, just stays on the floor, breathing heavily, and after a moment his head drops. He’s hurt, she thinks, and not just from the electroprod; there are two large wounds on his back, perfectly round, and shiny with bacta — just enough to prevent infection, but not enough to actually heal them.

“Are you all right?” she asks, and his head snaps back up at the sound of her voice, teeth bared. Still he doesn’t attack; just stares at her, and she stares back. Based on his coloring and markings, she thinks he looks Dathomirian, but she knows how rare it is for men from Dathomir to ever leave the planet.

The silence stretches for long enough that Padmé doesn’t think she’s going to get an answer, so she’s startled when he licks his lips and says, “I’m fine.”

His voice is deep and rich, but cracked from disuse or maybe just a lack of water. She wonders how the Togorians caught him, and what they want from him besides torturing their other prisoners.

“If I get closer, are you going to start gnawing on my arms?” she says, and he huffs the barest hint of a laugh.

“No,” he says. “I’m not that hungry yet. Give it a few more days.”

There’s a resignation in his tone that she doesn’t like, as if he’s known starvation before and is aware of just how close to it he is now.

Padmé takes a step forward, and then another when he just watches her but doesn’t move. “I’m Padmé. What’s your name?” she says.

“Savage,” he says. “Savage Opress.”

Padmé’s breath catches, and it feels like the temperature in the cell drops abruptly. She knows that name. This man is a Sith, Darth Maul’s apprentice, responsible for the deaths of Masters Halsey and Gallia and so many others.

“I won’t tell you anything,” she says, surprised by how steady her voice comes out. One hand subtly twists behind her back, trying to wiggle her knife free, no matter how useless it may be against him.

His eyes darken, and he frowns. “You know me?” he says, and she can’t read the emotions in his voice.

“I know what you’ve done,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t snarl, doesn’t lash out like she expects. Just says, “Oh,” quietly. It startles her enough that she stops reaching for her knife.

“Oh?” she repeats, incredulous. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I wasn’t sure it was real. I’d hoped…” he trails off.

This has to be some sort of trick. A way for him to lure her closer, or lower her guard. Any minute now he’s going to straighten up, smile cold and merciless, and call the guards back to finish this charade.

Except.

She watched sparks dance over his body when the Togorian electrocuted him. Her eyes dart again to the wounds on his back, and then away. Dathomir is a swamp world but this planet and especially this cell are freezing, and he is wearing nothing but a belted kilt. He’s large, even for a Zabrak, but not monstrous, the way she’d heard him described.

There are a hundred easier ways to get the information they want from her than to stick a Sith lord in a cell with her and hope that she makes friends.

“The Nightsisters did something to me,” he says. “I don’t really remember. I think I was fighting — against a Nightsister, or maybe a Human man in a dark robe — and I was losing. Had already lost. And then I woke up here in this dungeon, and I have memories of…doing things. Things I can’t have done.” He pauses again, looking haunted.

“I need to find my brother. He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.”

“Maul?” she says, sharp, and he shrugs at her, helpless.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Padmé is a politician, which means that people lie to her face every day because they want something from her. She regularly stands in front of the Senate, where more representatives than she can count on her fingers smile politely and secretly plot her death. So, it goes without saying that she can read body language as fluently as Aurebesh.

Savage isn’t lying, or at least he doesn’t think he is.

If this is a ruse, she can’t discern its purpose. And if it’s not? Well. It sounds like there might be one fewer Sith in the galaxy, and that can only be a good thing.

“I can get us out of here,” she tells him. “But I’ll need your help.”

She watches as his expression slowly morphs from one of misery to cautious hope.

“Anything,” he says.

“Help me reach the lock.”

She can’t climb on his back or his shoulders, injured as he is, but he shifts to one knee so that she can step up onto the other one, holding up a hand to help her balance. Her other lands in his horns, and he twitches hard, nearly sending her toppling to the ground, before strong hands brace her torso. Each one is big enough to fit nearly the whole way around her waist, but he’s keeping his claws carefully clear.

“Sorry,” she says, aware that horn touching among Zabraks is an intimate gesture generally reserved for family and close friends and, well. A more _intimate_ kind of friend. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” he says, but she thinks he’s blushing.

She pretends not to notice, not wanting to make him even more uncomfortable, concentrating instead on the lock that she can now see well enough to know where to stick the slim bits of metal she pulls back out from her hair.

It’s the work of only a few moments to open the lock now that she can actually reach it properly. It blinks green with a click, and the door swings ever-so-slightly open.

They both pause for a moment, listening for the sounds of guards coming running, but there is silence in the hallway. Padmé grins down at Savage, triumphant, and is a little startled by the awe in his eyes as he gazes back up at her.

Before she can step down, Savage lifts her to the ground gently. Such a casual display of strength, she thinks, willing away the butterflies in her stomach. Now is not the time or the place.

She offers a hand to help him to his feet, and he takes it, his other hand braced against the wall and supporting some of his weight, so as not to put too much strain on her.

“Ready to go?” she says, finally ripping the knife free of her dress and giving it a twirl to remind herself of its balance.

His answering smile is fierce and full of hope. “Stay behind me,” he says. And then, with a howl, he bursts through their cell door, bowling straight into the pair of Togorians standing watch in the corridor and taking them down with ease.

Padmé follows close behind, snatching a blaster and a spare power pack from one of the downed guards. As they make their way out of the cell block and up the stairs, more Togorians come running, and Savage throws himself at them, ducking jabs of an electroprod and vicious claw swipes, and dealing his own with obvious delight.

She can’t risk firing near him, in case she hits him by accident, but Padmé starts picking off guards at the top of the steps before they become a threat. He spares a moment to glance back at her, and bares bloody teeth in what she thinks is approval.

They reach the top of the stairs and the corridor beyond, and Padmé really hopes Savage knows where he’s going when he makes an abrupt left turn, but she keeps following and shoots any Togorians that try to sneak up behind them.

And then they’re out, blinking in the bright sunlight, and Padmé can see ships in front of them. Or what used to be ships at least — most of them look no better than scrap. But there, half-hidden under a tarp, Padmé gets a glimpse of a very familiar J-type star skiff.

“That way,” she shouts, pointing to it, and they both run to it. The hatch opens at her touch, and she practically throws herself into the pilot’s seat, skipping most of the pre-flight checks in favor of getting off this planet as fast as she can.

They’re low on fuel, but that’s fine; they just need to get clear, and then she can comm for assistance and Naboo or the Republic will send someone to retrieve them.

“Strap in,” she tells Savage, and does so herself. He fumbles with his own straps, in a seat that was made for a much smaller human whose fingertips didn’t end in claws, and she reaches over to buckle him in securely.

On the front view screen she can see Togorians shouting and taking potshots at the ship. They’re out of time.

“Here we go,” she says, and pulls down on the throttle, sending the ship hurtling up in the air. Padmé is no expert pilot, but she knows enough tricks to avoid the ground-to-air cannons that try to blow them out of the sky. Within moments, they’re out of the cannons’ range, and then out of the atmosphere altogether and hurtling through the blackness of space.

Padmé risks taking her eyes off the viewscreen long enough to glance at Savage. He’s gripping the dashboard in front of him hard enough that she thinks a piece of it might break off, and he’s wild-eyed beneath the blood that soaks him, but when he sees her looking, he throws back his head and roars his triumph, his relief, his freedom. She grins, and only the etiquette lessons drilled into her since childhood stop her from joining him.

Once she’s sure there’s no one following them, she locks in the autopilot — not with any particular destination in mind, just taking them further away from Togoria, slumps back in her seat in a way that would make her former tutors shriek with outrage, and just breathes. They did it, they escaped, and they’re both alive.

Padmé starts reaching for the comms and then pauses. Whoever she calls will want to lock Savage up again, interrogate him, and they won’t be as cruel as the Togorians but it feels like a betrayal all the same. Then again, should she really help him get back to Maul? Whatever the Nightsisters did to Savage, Maul might be able to do as well, and then Padmé will be responsible for unleashing him once more on the galaxy.

He’s looking at her again, full of wonder, and she can’t help imagining how that would twist to _fear-resentment-hatred_ when a Republic trooper slapped cuffs on his wrists. Hells, they might not even try to arrest him; it’s possible they’ll take one look at him and start shooting, and then his death will be on her conscience.

She pulls up a map instead. The nearest planet is Thanos, located within the same star system, but it’s a Separatist shipyard and would be just as happy to hold her captive as Togoria. Further along the Lesser Lantillian Route is Uyter, a Republic-controlled agricultural world. Savage should be able to find a ship there that will take him in whatever direction he wants to head, and Padmé should be able to refuel and then head towards Coruscant.

She points to Uyter, and asks, “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know much galactic geography,” he says, a little embarrassed.

“You’ll be able to find a ship there that will let you work to earn passage. It probably won’t get you very far, but out of this system at least, and to a bigger spaceport with more options.”

“Then yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

She puts a careful hand on his. “You could anywhere you want,” she says. “You don’t have to go back to Maul.”

“He’s my brother,” Savage says simply, and she nods in understanding.

“There’s a ‘fresher in the back,” she tells him. “You’ll have an easier time convincing someone to take you onboard if you’re not covered in blood.”

He looks down at himself as if noticing it for the first time, and this time she gets a good view of him as he blushes, his face turning a dusky orange. “Yes, I’ll…go take care of that,” he says, and manages to unbuckle the straps holding him in his seat.

She politely hides her smile until she can hear the sonics running.

Padmé lays in a course for Uyter and double-checks their fuel levels; there should be enough for a very short hyperspace jump. She waits to pull the lever until Savage has returned, not wanting to accidentally knock him over without warning when the ship leaves realspace.

Then, she takes her turn in the ‘fresher, washing away the grime of captivity with a sigh of relief. There are a few changes of clothes for her onboard, and she selects a simple tunic and long skirt that shouldn’t make her stand out too badly. Unfortunately, she can’t find anything that will fit Savage; she wishes she could at least offer him a shirt to keep him warm.

She returns to the cockpit shortly before they’re due to drop out of hyperspace, to find Savage huddled in his too-small chair, staring out the view screen at the stars streaking by. “I used to dream of this,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes off the stars. “Flying away from Dathomir, so fast that even the witches couldn’t catch me. And I did fly away, but I wasn’t fast enough to escape them.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s not enough, but nothing could be.

“You were angry when you learned my name,” he says. “You thought I was going to hurt you. And you were right, I’ve hurt others; the Nightsisters made me…” his shoulders are hunched and he’s still bigger than Padmé but he looks like he wants to make himself small, nonthreatening.

“So far,” Padmé cuts him off. “You’ve done nothing but help me.”

“I don’t want to lose myself again,” he says, practically begging. “I don’t want to be your enemy.”

She wishes she could promise that it won’t happen, that she could stop the war right now and hide Savage away from everyone who wants to use him for their own selfish purposes. But he insists on returning to Maul, and even though she can’t approve of his choice she has to admire his devotion, his love.

She takes his hand again, and he turns to look at her. “You’ve found yourself once already,” she says. “I believe you can do it again.”

He curls his fingers around hers gently, so gently, and when his lips tremble, she reaches her other hand out to guide his bowed forehead to her shoulder. He presses his face in, and she wraps her arms around him as he shakes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] To Chase Beautiful Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448153) by [Yuurei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuurei/pseuds/Yuurei)




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